Feo stared at him, his fingers tightening into the blanket beneath his hands. His breath came slow, controlled, but there was something behind his golden eyes now—something stormy, something unreadable.

It was one thing to know Lucius was fragile, to see the way he moved sometimes, how he winced just a little too sharply at things that shouldn’t hurt that much. But hearing it, hearing how deep it went, how much it had shaped him? How it had broken him? That was different. That was personal. That was something Feo didn’t know if he could sit with without it eating him alive.

And then there was the other part—the words Lucius had said before.

We kill them.

Feo had wanted to hear those words. Had dreamed of hearing those words. Because he had been waiting for Lucius to finally break, to finally let go of the naive hope that things could be fixed, that the gods could be reasoned with, that any of them were worth a damn. He should’ve felt relief. Should’ve felt something good.

But all he felt was rage.

Rage that it had taken this long.

Rage that it had taken this much.

Rage that Lucius had been forced to reach this point at all.

His jaw tightened as he exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t screw up last night, Lucius.” He reached up, rubbing at the tension in his temple before dropping his hand. “You’re right, though. I should’ve known something was off, should’ve—” His throat closed up for a second before he forced the words out. “I should’ve asked. And I didn’t. I just acted.”

He wasn’t even sure if he was angry at himself or at Lucius anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe at the fact that this was the kind of world they lived in, where a kid with wings had to break his bones just to keep up, where a god’s child had to decide if he wanted to drown in a cursed river just to be safe.

The River Styx.

Feo clenched his fists. “You don’t need to be like Achilles, Lucius.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re not him. You’re not some tragic hero, not some story written by the gods for their entertainment. You’re you. And you don’t have to turn yourself into something unkillable just to prove a point.”

Feo meant two different things by saying you're not him. Sure, he was speaking of Achilles on the surface. But underneath, he meant Iven. Lucius wasn't Iven. He would never be. And while Iven had been the love of Feo's life, well.. there had been a reason Iven had died. A reason, something Lucius didn't have. Something that made him perfect. Something that made him better than Iven. Feo didn't want to replace Iven. He wanted to use him as a stepping stone. As an example to never let Lucius end up like that. He hadn't been protective enough then. He was too protective now.

Balance.

He was learning.

Because the point wasn’t just about survival. The point wasn’t about strength. It was about fear. It was about making sure no one could hurt him again.

And Feo understood that better than anyone.

He took a slow breath, watching as Lucius kept his gaze away, kept his good hand fumbling with the fabric of his shirt instead of looking at him. He hated that. Hated the distance. Hated that they were still struggling with the same damn thing—too stubborn, too broken, too tangled up in their own heads to just talk.

Feo shifted forward slightly, his voice quieter now. “Look at me, Lucius.”

He waited, giving him the space to move at his own pace. To lift his gaze, to listen.

“You’re not alone in this. You never were. And you never will be.” His fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to reach out. “So don’t start thinking like that. Not now. Not when we’re this close to taking everything back.”

They weren’t running anymore. They were fighting. And they were going to win.

Even if it meant burning everything to the ground, Feo would do it in a heartbeat. For him.

Feo’s entire body locked up.

He barely even breathed.

Lucius never said that.

Not like this. Not with his voice cracking, not with his walls down. Not with the weight of something real, something raw, something that made Feo’s stomach twist up into something tight and unbearable.

Lucius didn’t ask for help. He grinned through the pain, shouldered burdens meant to be shared, carried his suffering in silence and never let anyone see when it got too heavy. He’d let himself break before he let himself ask.

How did Feo know?

Because Feo did the exact. Same. Fucking. Thing.

But now—

Feo shot up so fast his vision blackened at the edges, his balance wavering, the room tilting around him. His ears rang, and his head swam, but none of it mattered. His body moved before his mind could catch up, driven by instinct alone.

By the time the dizziness subsided, he was already standing over Lucius, breath tight in his chest.

Slow. He had to go slow.

Feo sank onto the bed, barely making a sound. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between them disappearing in an instant, and for just a second, he hesitated. Not out of doubt, not out of uncertainty—but out of the desperate, gnawing need to be gentle. To not break something that had already been through too much.

Carefully—so carefully—he reached forward, resting a hand against Lucius’s side, fingers twitching at the warmth beneath his palm. Slowly, slowly, he eased him backward, guiding him until his back was pressed to Feo’s chest.

He could feel everything. The rise and fall of Lucius’s breathing. The faint tremor beneath his skin. The exhaustion weighing down every inch of him, like he was barely keeping himself together.

Feo curled an arm around his waist, grounding him. His other hand hovered, hesitant, fingers trembling as they ghosted over Lucius’s skin. He wasn’t sure if he should touch. If it would hurt. If it would be too much.

The scars—he had never seen seen them before. Glimpses, obviously. He knew Lucius had them. Knew he carried wounds that no one had bothered to heal. His hands were evidence enough. But seeing them, feeling them beneath his fingers—there was something about it that twisted something deep in his chest.

His fingers shook as they traced the edges of the raised skin, barely applying pressure, moving with the care of someone handling something delicate. Something fragile. Something that had already been broken once and couldn’t take another hit.

Lucius wasn’t fragile. Not in the way that mattered. But Feo had known pain. He had known what it felt like to be shaped and shattered by gods who never bothered to ask if you wanted to be their weapon. He had known what it felt like to be wrong in your own skin.

And that knowledge made his throat burn.

“I’ll help you,” he whispered, the words barely a breath, barely audible. But the weight behind them was undeniable.

His hand stopped shaking.

He meant it. Every syllable, every promise wrapped in those three words.

“I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

His grip around Lucius’s waist tightened, just slightly. Just enough to let him know he wasn’t alone. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

The warmth of Lucius’s body pressed against him, solid and real, and Feo swallowed down the sharp ache in his chest.

“Whatever it takes.”

Feo barely breathed.

The moment Lucius’s fingers curled around his arm, something inside him clenched so tight it almost hurt. His whole chest ached with the weight of it—the quiet, unspoken thing that had been sitting in him for longer than he could name.

Lucius trusted him.

Not just with words, not just in the fleeting way people said I trust you and didn’t mean it—not in the way gods and fate played their cruel, conditional games. This was real. This was tangible. It was in the way Lucius had finally let himself lean into him, in the way he had whispered those words like they were made of glass, like he was afraid they would break before they reached Feo’s ears.

"Help me get back up again, to keep going."

Feo felt the words sink into his skin, deeper than he thought anything ever could. He had spent so long chasing something he didn’t have a name for, so long trying to protect and fight and fix, but this? This was something different. This wasn’t a battle he could win with a knife or a gun or sheer, reckless willpower. This was Lucius—his Lucius, his Dove, his Lulu—handing him something fragile and impossible and trusting him not to shatter it.

And Feo would try until he died.

His arm curled a little tighter around Lucius’s waist, firm but careful, steady but not caging. His other hand, the one that had ghosted over old scars and new wounds alike, settled over Lucius’s ribs, fingers splayed as if grounding them both. I hear you. I see you. I’m here. He didn’t say it out loud, but it was there, in every touch, every breath.

And then—the knock.

Sharp. Invasive. An unwanted presence cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Feo’s entire body went rigid, golden eyes flashing toward the door. He knew who it was. He knew it before the sound had even fully registered.

"No."

The snarl tore out of his throat before he could think, low and venomous, a guttural rejection of everything waiting beyond that door. No. Not now. Not here. Not when Lucius was finally here, finally letting himself be held, finally asking for something that wasn’t laced with sharp edges and defiance.

Feo clenched his jaw, fury sparking hot in his chest. The gods had already taken too much. They had stolen time, stolen choices, stolen lives. They had dictated and manipulated and twisted fate to fit their own selfish whims. But this? This wasn’t theirs to take.

This was his moment.

This was Lucius’s moment.

And he refused to let them take it.

His hold on Lucius tightened just slightly—not trapping, not restraining, just there. Just anchoring. His breath was uneven, his heart pounding in his ears, but he forced himself to stay. To let the rage simmer instead of explode, to keep himself here instead of storming to that door and throwing it open with a knife in hand.

Instead, he did the only thing that made sense.

Feo exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against Lucius’s side, and buried his face into the curve of Lucius’s neck.

He breathed him in.

Not as a possession, not as something to keep locked away from the world—but as something real. As something his, but not to claim—simply to have, in the only way that mattered. Lucius was his to hold, his to protect, his to help—not because Feo demanded it, not because fate had written it in blood, but because Lucius had asked. And for him? Feo would run himself to the ends of the Earth and still jump off that edge. He did bad shit. Shit that pissed people—shit that pissed Lucius off. He refused to repeat his mistakes.

Or so help him.